The ShortDoll PJ
by Jane Bell
Summary: Sharpay looks for her favourite pyjamas.


_Disclaimer: All characters to the half-naked, very cute, little mouse. For fun, not for profit! The "Tutti-frutti" PJ are actually mine, though._

**The short doll PJ**

It was all her mother's fault.

Exasperated for the hundredth time since she had left shower two minutes ago, Sharpay bared her teeth in a dog-like groan which reverberated through her pinkish room. Where the _fuck_ were her Italian short-doll pyjamas? The ones she had bought herself two or three years ago in a shopping-spree rage upon discovering half her nightdresses had Disney Princesses motifs, and so she had gone directly somewhere no vendor, relative, friend or acquaintance knew her: Wall Mart. They weren't really Italian, mind you, but likely sewed by able, however underpaid, Chinese hands, but the words "Tutti-frutti" in sparkling pink were enough to gain them the European nationality.

She glared at the guava-coloured nightdress Aunt Grace had given her for her birthday. It was low quality fabric, the embroidered flowers caused her breasts to itch and she disliked her aunt deeply, therefore it was the first piece of clothing she tossed out of the closet as if it was polluting it. Ugly, awful thing, that guava-colour, and those white and blue flowers; not really old-fashioned, she could say, and that was exactly why she wouldn't wear it: it had never _been_ in fashion in the first place.

Next she found three thick pyjamas meant for cold weather, polar weather considering the last one's fabric. No use. It was the end of summer, but the early night was as hot as the day had been, and devoid of any nocturnal breeze. Her faithful ventilator was the only relief she got in her crammed closet as she sat on her fluffy carpet in purple-hearted panties and peered into her pyjamas drawers in an ill-mood. When were her menses due? Her PMS had got to a point she was bothering not only the school, her family and the household, but also herself.

Folding the pink bear pyjamas and setting it back into the drawer, she invariably looked down at her chest. Those breasts weren't really hers, seriously. They _had_ to be inflating somehow, no healthy, pretty woman such as herself had breasts that awfully big. And that bothered her further, for if she couldn't find the damnable Italian short-doll, she would have to sleep with a bra, which was as horribly unpleasant as the smell of her hair after a dancing party full of smokers. She winced and shivered at the thought and groaned again as she realised she was through with the drawer and that she would have to either wear Aunt Grace's guava-thing or sleep naked. With a bra.

Oh, fuck.

She shut the drawer with far too much force, as if the poor thing was responsible for the disappearance of her favourite pyjamas. In truth, it was her mother, she just knew it was. Who else would insist upon having them washed on plain Wednesday? It was the middle of the week, for goodness' sake!

Still groaning, Sharpay opened another drawer and inspected the tees inside. Most of them were pretty silly, those tees one usually gets for taking part in dance competitions, sport events and bingos (her mother was inexplicably fond of those, something she never could, and likely never would, understand). One of them, Sharpay reasoned through raged breaths concealed by flaring nostrils, one of them simply had to be large, loose around the neck and long enough that she would be able to sleep in it, maybe with her swimming shorts just for the sake of the cosy feeling of a strap of fabric between her legs other than the panties', just in case her stress was a symptom – and she dearly hoped it was – that she would be menstruated in the morning.

She tried on four of them, two of which Ryan had once worn in the Baseball Junior League and which were now too small for him – but these, she found as soon as she had them on, were too tight on the neck and gave her the feeling her breasts were falling. None fit comfortably, and she was reminded of an old Victoria Secrets tee she used to have in that drawer, one which she had bought for no especial reason other than just to, and that she had found later to be the best PJ ever when matched with a pair of swimming shorts and an old red top she used to wear to her dance classes.

Normal people slept in their old clothing, why not her?

But as she waded through the endlessness of the bottom drawer, the inevitable realisation that her mother – who else, but her mother! – had given it to charity long ago had her almost weeping. Why was _everything_ not in the place it should be that day?

Swallowing a yell of frustration with a half-screamed groan, Sharpay lay on her back. Maybe she should just stop acting like some spoilt child and wear Aunt Grace's damnable nightdress. End this torture. After a feel calming pills she wouldn't be able to tell the difference, anyway. The idea of sewing a piece of cloth on the inside of the ugly nightdress occurred to her; it'd stop the itching, she though.

Not feeling an inch better at the prospect of fixing the guava ugliness, she searched through the closet for a piece of something she could utterly ruin. The chosen one was some piece of extra fabric which had come with a Halloween costume she had bought when she was ten, a living-dead witch with a pointed hat to match. Perfect, she thought, just what she needed, and yet, as she was about to get up from the floor to get a pair of scissors and a needle, she stopped. Sewing that strap meant one thing and one thing only: there would be a black stain pressed against her chest, against her heart, and she didn't like the symbolism of it in the least.

Groaning irritated her even more, but she couldn't help it. Nothing seemed to work! Nothing! And the very worst part of it was that nor her parents nor Ryan were home – Daddy had some meeting and mother and Ryan were having yoga class, how infuriating –, and the cleaning lady had already gone home, which meant her sweet Italian short-doll would be in a bucket of water and chemicals in order to clean the pizza stains she has left on it the night before!

Frustrated, half-weeping, groaning and cursing obscenities under her breath, Sharpay got up from her fluffy, pinkish-white carpet and strode downstairs in her panties and nothing else, paying no heed whatsoever to the opened curtains and probable peeking neighbours and passer-bys. She just had to get to the kitchen and eat as much chocolate as there was in the house or she might just go _insane._

The surgical cleanness of the kitchen seemed to tighten her nerves. Why was it that the whole house was so neat and so tidy and so empty? It was simply devoid of anything which might give her the faintest homely feeling, simply so cold and stern, dehumanised and irritatingly perfect! Where the hell was Ryan when she madly needed someone to yell at and then give her a shoulder to cry?

She was half-way through with her first bar of Milka when she noticed something lying on the table. A note, she saw, written by Blanca quite probably. Her chocolate-browned fingers grabbed it and she read as if expecting some reminder that at least someone in the world still cared for her. She wasn't disappointed.

"Miss Shar," it read, "I finished ironing your laundry, but didn't have time to put it in your closet. I left the skirts and PJs folded over the washing machine, if you need them. Love, Blanca."

A jovial wave shot through her and an instant grin spread from one ear to another as Sharpay put the note down and made a mental note to kiss Blanca the following day. She hopped nearly naked through the house, swollen breasts bouncing about, but they didn't anger her anymore. Within the minute, she was fully dressed in her beautiful Wall Mart / Italian short-doll PJ, and smiling and giggling and humming a nameless song while going back to her room to watch some TV before her anyone was back home.


End file.
